... What You Wish For

© James C. Clar

Carter awoke and found himself sprawled on the wet sand of a tropical atoll. Breakers crashed over his battered body. He sputtered and coughed before he lifted his head and crawled further ashore. Situated so that now only his feet were exposed to the surf, he turned onto his back and looked up at the azure sky and the unrelenting yellow of the sun. A tall coconut palm cast finger-like projections of shadow across his face.

Damn, Carter thought with almost maniacal relief. I'm lucky to be alive. He remembered very little concerning the crash itself: a sudden Pacific storm, the plane buffeting crazily in the gale-force winds, his starboard engine faltering then dying. The last thing he recalled with any clarity was losing altitude and, ultimately, the ocean rising toward him like some living, malignant entity.

He struggled to his knees and surveyed his surroundings. He was fairly certain that he had come down somewhere in the Cook Islands. If that were so, his only real hope for rescue would be if native fishermen used this particular island as a place to obtain fresh water, mangoes, coconuts and other such necessities as they plied their trade between the more “civilized” reaches of their remote domain. At least food wouldn't be a problem. He just needed to be patient.

Carter staggered to his feet and lurched forward. Beyond the surf-line, the sand was blisteringly hot. He had lost his shoes – probably sucked off by the tide as he lay in the water. His clothes were torn, shredded in places even, from the rocks and coral. He had nasty cuts on his face and hands. Something shiny caught his eye off to his right, a piece of wreckage maybe? As he drew nearer he realized that it was an elaborately wrought bottle of dark green emblazoned with weird cobalt glyphs. He bent down and picked it up.

Noticing the glass stopper he began to laugh. This was the stuff of every little boy's fantasy: a deserted island and a genie in a bottle. Although still weak and in shock from his ordeal, Carter couldn't resist. He had dreamt of this moment while floating on his back in the lake behind the house where his family had lived until he was ten. He already knew precisely what he'd wish for when asked. He began caressing the bottle as he worked the stopper free.

“Master,” the genie spoke when he materialized in a roiling cloud of vapor, “since fate has ordained that you are the one to set me free, your wish is my command.”

This whole thing is a dream or a delusion, Carter thought, but what the hell. I'll play along.

“Genie,” Carter, said, “I want you to grant me three wishes for all eternity.”

The Genie smiled. This was invariably how such things went. “Granted,” he replied. “You have three wishes for all eternity.”

***

… Carter awoke and found himself sprawled on the wet sand of a tropical atoll …

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James C. Clar has published over 100 stories in print as well as on the Internet. Recently he has placed fiction in The Taj Mahal Review, The New Flesh Magazine, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Shine: A Journal of Flash, Flashshot, Golden Visions Magazine, Apollo's Lyre, Antipodean SF and The Magazine of Crime & Suspense.